


The Regulars

by GretchenSinister



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blacksand - Freeform, M/M, Multi, QUICKSAND, Stage Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretchenSinister/pseuds/GretchenSinister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suffering from writer's block, Sandy comes across an advertisement for a late-night magic show. The threatening yet mesmerizing illusionist, Pitch Black, draws him back night after night. Sandy may not know what he's getting into, but he's not going to run away now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Regulars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme. Presented here in edited form, in honor of Quicksand week on Tumblr.
> 
> P.S. The multi is only implied, so don't get all excited.

Pitch Black. Sandy thought he’d never get over how corny that stage name should sound, but after going to a few—okay, more than a few—of the illusionist’s late night shows, he can’t deny that the man really does carry it with style.

“Pitch Black’s Nightmare Fantasmagoria”—Sandy remembers first seeing the flyer while walking the tangle of streets that surrounded his flat, unsuccessfully battling the twin horrors of insomnia and writer’s block. It looked like whatever it was advertising was one of those trying-too-hard-to-be-trendy steampunk/burlesque shows that popped up like mushrooms these days. “Terror! Wonder! YOU WILL BE AMAZED” the poster shouted in what Sandy recognized as a free font. The show started at midnight. Late enough so the straights thought they were being daring, but early enough so that they would show up with their fat wallets in the first place.

He ran his hand over his face. No, he wasn’t being fair. Did he want Cooger and Dark’s carnival to roll into town? Not particularly. He just wanted something that was _real_ to inspire him. Real terror. Real wonder. It was frustrating to see it offered on this poster, all the while knowing that if he did want something fantastic to come of this invitation, it would have to come from him. In a story—one of his stories, for example—the protagonist would go to a mysterious magic show in the middle of the night and maybe discover real magic. Ordinarily, he was fine with knowing that he had to build all the worlds within the wardrobes, so to speak, but writer’s block had been plaguing him for weeks and weeks now, making it difficult to meet the imperfect world even halfway with any sort of good grace.

He made a deal with himself, then. Knowing and accepting that Pitch Black’s show would disappoint him, he would go tomorrow night if he couldn’t sleep. Maybe the frustration would stir up his imagination to at least create a setting that painted over the poured concrete he knew he would see through the cracks of Pitch Black’s set.

The next night he found himself heading down the stairs to the expected commercial basement space, in a company that was mainly the expected girls and boys in black lipstick, old women in flowing skirts, androgynous people in corsets, and nervous, doughy-faced American study-abroad students. Decaying antique chairs, no two alike, were arranged in rows in front of the stage. Sandy took one near the door, just in case things got too awkwardly awful.

When the surprisingly expensive-looking red velvet curtain opened at 11:59, Sandy raised his eyebrows. Pitch Black wasn’t that kind of diva, at least. And if that was him on the stage, he didn’t look anything like the pierced-and-tattooed “ooh body modification, scary” twentysomething hack he had been expecting.

Somewhere, a clock (or a recording of a clock) began to chime midnight. Pitch Black, who had been standing stock-still with his head bowed in the dead center of the stage, slowly raised his head and his arms. He wore a black robe that clung to his slender frame, with only black trousers underneath. Sandy rolled his eyes at this, but it wasn’t as if the man’s abs _didn’t_ deserve to be shown off. He noted Black’s appearance quickly in his mind, before he could speak. Even if he probably wasn’t going to turn out to be a character, he certainly looked like one. Deathly pale. About Sandy’s age, maybe a little older. Very tall, at least 6’5”. Hooked nose that made him look like a bird of prey. Sharp cheekbones, sharp jawline. Grey eyes that looked huge in his face, framed by what he always thought of as “villain brows” that pointed instead of arched. Salt-and-pepper hair, combed back harshly. _All right, Pitch Black. You can talk now and ruin it._

“Welcome…brave souls.” _Oh._ His voice didn’t ruin his image, no, not in the slightest. It was a voice for smoky rooms full of threatening women, a voice like a tiger’s paw. A voice like black velvet used to display ornamental swords that would still hold an edge.

Black turned his hands so that his palms faced the back of the stage and bowed slightly. “You have come here at the witching hour for the kinds of enchantments only I am able to provide.” A smirk pulled lightly at his lips as he gestured to a small table at the right front corner of the stage, a dim spotlight following the path described by his hand. The light revealed a large hourglass resting on the table. With movements as smooth as flowing water or shadow itself, he walked to the glass and flipped it over. Black sand began to trickle from the top to the bottom. “And now, for the witching hour, I shall entertain you. Until the glass empties, you are mine.”

He leaned out over the first row, hands behind his back. “Feel free to watch as closely as you dare.”

 

***

 

When the show ended—and it did simply _end_ , with no finale: in the middle of a close-work card trick Pitch Black looked up, saw the last grains of black sand fall, gathered his cards, stood, bowed, and closed the curtain—Sandy left reeling. As he walked home, he tried to organize the show in his mind. Most of the illusions had been very simple, or at least they seemed so now, out in the cold, damp night breezes. But they hadn’t seemed that way when Pitch Black was selling them. Then, they had seemed ominous, potent, _real_. He had given them the simple, compelling idea that if even one man could violate the laws of matter like he was showing them he could, then their whole universe was undermined. Terror and wonder indeed. It probably had something to do with the way Sandy could tell that Pitch was the best cold reader he had ever seen, even if he hadn’t been flashy about it. It was as if he wasn’t going to bother with trying to amaze his audience with his ability to get inside their heads—as if it was so natural to him he didn’t even notice he was doing it.

_Next time I go,_ he thought, _I’m going to volunteer._

To his surprise, when he returned home, he realized he was exhausted after the excitement of the show. He slid under the covers gratefully, falling asleep in minutes.

 

***

 

“And where are you going to go from here, Joan Blake?” Sandy wakes with Pitch’s voice still ringing in his ears. Could it be? Could that dream of swirling black cloaks and deep red curtains, chthonic mazes and eerie silver machines that passed through each other like ghosts have all been inspired by Pitch? And could it have shattered his writer’s block?

_Yes_ , Sandy thinks as he makes himself a cup of tea. _Yes, it could._ The elation of inspiration is filling him from head to toe once again: he can make anything fantastic now, even a teabag, even a television, even a gnawed-on pen. The egg of his skull has been cracked open again to let the wind from between the stars howl through the wrinkles of his brain.

Joan Blake has her villain now.

He writes all day and into the evening, and as it gets late he has a small debate with himself about going back to Pitch Black’s show so soon. After all, he’s probably going to do the same thing again, maybe this time he’ll be disappointed. But he needs to see Pitch again to describe him properly. It’s research. For work. He’ll just sit in the back, bring his notebook…

He sits in the front row, just as enthralled as he was yesterday. In between a couple of illusions, he swears Pitch looks at him out of the side of his eyes and gives him the barest hint of a smile.

Every night, the show is different, and every night afterward Sandy dreams of Pitch, or things that his unconscious mind somehow links with Pitch.

Through the refracting medium of his dreams, Pitch is shaping up to be a fine villain, if Sandy does say so himself. Mister Nyx. Gentleman, enchanter, lover of games. He simply won’t be persuaded that Joan Blake found herself able to see him by accident. That she accepted an invitation to his world without knowing what she was getting herself into.

Over the course of a few weeks, Sandy begins to notice a few regulars aside from himself at Pitch’s shows. There’s the angelic-faced teenager with bleached hair and a hoodie who looks like he’s one bad day away from getting caught with a knife—it would be for self-defense, but the police wouldn’t care. He only shows up on particularly cold nights, and Sandy thinks the horse-faced bouncer lets him in for free. There’s the beautiful Indian woman who has never worn the same sari twice, all of which have been made of brilliant fabrics that look custom made. Once, she had brought a small girl with her, maybe her sister, maybe her daughter, who had been utterly terrified throughout the entire performance. There’s the Australian who looks like a boxer and always wears a rather odd two-tasseled hat. Sandy wishes he could remember the patter that led to it, but during one performance that man had dispassionately flipped Pitch the bird, and Pitch had winked at him, equally dispassionately. Then there’s the Russian, or at least Sandy assumes that’s his nationality, based on the script used for his sleeve tattoos. He’s huge, taller even than Pitch and much broader. Even though he has a long white beard, Sandy wouldn’t bet on any five people against him in a fight.

_Why them?_ Sandy wonders sometimes after the show. _Why us? Why do we keep coming back again and again?_ They aren’t like the people who fill the rest of the audience, who show up once, get freaked out, but leave giggling. Sandy knows that for himself he’s become convinced that there’s more to Pitch, maybe even half-convinced that he’s exactly what he pretends to be. A wielder of strange energies, a master of the mind, a potentate of darkness.

But if he was that, he wouldn’t be performing nightly shows for £15 a head, now would he?

But that’s what Mister Nyx did—Mister Nyx was having great fun watching normal people react to real magic before Joan Blake saw through his glamour. Sure. It was plausible.

Sandy doesn’t dwell on it. He’d rather fall asleep so he can dream of Pitch.

 

***

 

The night before his meeting with Anita Williams, his editor, he dreams that he and Pitch are sitting in a ruined palace in the desert. Stars shine down on them through holes in the ceiling. Pitch turns to him and says, very matter-of-factly, “You’ve been monopolizing my time, and I hope you have an excellent reason for having done so.” Sandy leans forward and kisses him hard, pushing his tongue into Pitch’s mouth, an invasion which the dream-Pitch is all too pleased to welcome. He chuckles. “That’s a good start.” _Well, I’m not finished yet_ , Sandy thinks, but as he leans in towards Pitch again his alarm goes off.

The dream remains vivid in his mind throughout the day.

“First of all, Sandy,” Williams says, “THANK YOU for coming through with the chapter manuscripts in time. You were making me nervous with all that talk of writer’s block a few weeks ago. And now five chapters! You’ve saved both our asses.”

“Thanks—I guess I found a new source of inspiration—”

 

“GREAT. Drink it till it’s dry. Your new stuff is great. They’re going to love it. But there are still a few problems we’re going to need you to fix before the plot gets any farther.”

“Such as?” Sandy’s not worried. They’ve tried to make him change things before, but he should be able to get them to cave this time. After all, _Agatha’s Masks_ had sold over 500,000 copies.

“Is Mister Nyx the love interest or the villain?”

He almost laughs before catching the serious expression on Williams’ face. “Why not both?”

“He’s _old_ , Sandy.”

“He’s immortal!”

“You describe him as looking old.”

“He looks very young for six hundred.”

Williams frowned. “The people glaring at me don’t want an evil grown man being the love object of a teenage girl.”

“But what about you, Anita? Don’t you find Mister Nyx appealing?”

“Of COURSE I do. How could I not? You wrote him fucking sexy. But are you comfortable having Joan Blake want him? Really?”

“I’m not in total control of Joan—that’s why I like her.”

“Sandy, Sandy. I love you, but let’s cut the crap. You were already on the edge with _Masks_. We don’t want you to write _Masks_ again. Or rather, we do. Exactly. We don’t want you to write anything better than _Masks_. We want you to write fantasy for teenage girls, and on the level we want, you have to control your writing. Make Joan do your bidding. Make Nyx look younger. Make him turn out good.”

“Anita, this is how I got writer’s block in the first place! You want me to be a total puppet master of all my characters! I don’t have that many hands! They won’t look alive that way.”

“Yes, they will. Or at least alive enough. Livelier than some. You give the girls a nice, safe, fantasy, with maybe a kiss between young Nyx and a Joan who goes back home after her trip down the well, and we give you money.”

Sandy’s’ face twists in disgust. “I’m tired of stories where the girl goes home. Joan could be a queen. I don’t know if she wants to yet, but she could be. I don’t want to make her click her heels if she doesn’t want to.”

Williams sighs. “For both our sakes, Sandy, just write something pretty. Talk about Joan’s clothes. Have her call herself plain while really being beautiful—demographically average features. Stop talking about Nyx’s legs, for the love of God. You can make the finale open-ended if you want. They like the possibility of sequels.

“And you can still write the version you want…GoldDreamer.”

Sandy’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t deny the name. “How did you know?”

“GoldDreamer was the best imitator of your style, and makes the same mistakes as you do in your manuscripts.”

“Why were you looking? Did you leave kudos?”

“That’s not important, and yes. Look Sandy. You are GoldDreamer, and you can write what you want. But for us, for me, for your own self-interest, just write a tame novel. Please. Control Mister Nyx. Split him. The young and appealing and the old, powerful, and evil.”

Sandy rolls his eyes. “I’ll work on it. But Anita—just on a personal level—would you like to continue reading it as-is?”

Williams smiles wryly and nods. “Yes. Very much. I love it. It’s strange; it could be talked about forever. My 80s-child self is totally willing to fall in love with Mister Nyx. I feel the settings like I was there. I want to live in your world. And there’s so much going on underneath the surface—it’s as allusion-dense as anything I’ve ever seen, but you’ve managed to make your puzzle-box inviting instead of off-putting. Well. It’s great. But we’re not really in for greatness here, Sandy. Purple covers and script-font titles, that’s what we’re in for. We’re just trying to reliably entertain the girls. Our imprint doesn’t offer fire. We give the girls books they think they need to hide from their mothers, that their mothers also read.”

“And what of uttergrief, MAskWEarer, 74pages, exdemon, and the others?”

“Well, they’re going to buy it anyway, aren’t they? Sandy…if you want to stay with us, give us the calm lake. If all you can give us is the tempestuous ocean, you’ll have to go somewhere else.”

Sandy presses his mouth into a thin line. “I’ll work on it. I can only hope Joan Blake proves herself amenable to you.”

“Good-bye, then. Good luck.”

“Bye, Anita. Have a good day at work.”

 

***

 

Sometimes, Pitch Black will spend a good part of the performance just talking, building up his worlds of dream and nightmare and trapping the audience within them like insects in amber. That night at the show, he turns to Sandy in the midst of his patter, which is unusual for him. Most of the time, he doesn’t turn his powers on the regulars. Sandy colors under his gaze. After his dream, after all his writing, and after his meeting with Williams, it’s pointless to pretend he hasn’t got a crush on Pitch.

And Pitch assuredly knows. Sandy’s sure it would be obvious to a child, much less an experienced cold reader.

“Sir,” Pitch says, fixing him with eyes like the pins used to hold butterflies to display boards, “do you want to believe in astral projection?”

A vision of his dream from the morning flashes through Sandy’s mind. His lips on Pitch’s, his tongue in his mouth. He gulps and nods slowly.

A thin sliver of a smile curves the lips of the real Pitch. “I thought you would.” He glances over the rest of the audience. “Imagine it, if you will. The ability to leave your body, your dreams, for someone else’s. Would you go to a celebrity? An actor, a singer? Would you go to a stranger? Would you want to be them? Would you want to touch them? Would you touch them? Would you touch them whether they wanted you to or not? After all, we all have strange dreams sometimes. They wouldn’t know.

“What if they tried to touch you? Would you let them?” Pitch hums. “You don’t have to tell me. I already know. You think you can hide it from me. But I know who you are in the dark. It’s who I am, after all.

“And I forgive you. Yes, I do. For we all want that space where our actions do not count. Why not dreams? Oh, but my dear children, if you have seen me before, surely you know that dreams count more than anything. And I still forgive you. For have I not done more, and done worse? Perhaps I shall tell you the stories someday.

“And now? Have I given it up? Not in the least. I have never believed in denying myself pleasures…though the ones I seek them with might surprise…most…of you.” With these last few words he has returned his gaze to Sandy, the pins of his eyes sharper than ever.

Sandy can feel his breath hitching. If he were any less civilized, he would jump up on stage and beg for Pitch to take him right there, in front of the audience. Who would probably stay, thinking that it was all part of the show. _This is crazy. You’ve lost your mind. He’s playing you like a fiddle and you don’t know why._

Pitch slowly blinks and looks away from Sandy, continuing with the show. “But maybe you have not reached the first step yet. This man in the front row has admitted that he wants to believe, but I did not ask him if he believed. Perhaps he would have answered in the negative, then.

“I cannot wound my ethereal body and have you stick your fingers in my sides. Instead, please allow my next demonstration to convince you that matter may easily be made as insubstantial as shadow.”

 

***

 

After the show, the horse-faced bouncer asks Sandy to wait. Nervously, Sandy shifts from foot to foot while the other patrons file out slowly. He folds his arms. Unfolds them. What possible reason could Pitch Black have for wanting him to stay after the show? Ravishing him onstage would be nice, but fantastically unlikely.

Each of the other regulars casts him an appraising glance as they leave. The boy in the hoodie grins wildly, which only makes Sandy more nervous. What do they know that he doesn’t?

Finally, everyone is gone. Even the bouncer leaves. Pitch Black steps out from behind the curtain and smiles at Sandy as he walks over to him. “Hello, Mr. Sanderson,” he says, inclining his head toward Sandy.

He blinks at him, bewildered. “How did you know my name?”

“How could I not know your name? You look just like the photos on the dust jackets of your books.”

“I…you read them? You’re not the target audience!”

“Yes, I know. Amazon thinks I have a daughter. But I always trust Jack’s book recommendations. You write luminous books, Mr. Sanderson. I would never have thought to see you at one of my shows—much less to see you become a regular. Not afraid to flirt with the dark, are you?”

“I hardly think—”

“Oh yes you do. You think a great deal. But what would you _do_ , Mr. Sanderson? To get what you wanted?” He laughs. “But here I am, still acting like I’m on stage. I simply asked you to wait so that I could apologize for singling you out earlier. I usually would not do so to a regular, but I had to…get your attention. Now, I would be most gratified if you would accept this token as a symbol of my appreciation of your loyalty.”

Even when he is this close—or perhaps because he is this close—Sandy can’t tell where the flower comes from. It’s a fine, large orchid, pink and white and shameless.

“Curious,” says Pitch, looking at it. “I thought it was going to be a yellow rose. I must trust the shadows, though.”

Pitch allows his fingers to brush against Sandy’s just an instant too long as he hands him the flower, and Sandy freezes. Reality and fantasy are crashing together far too quickly. Pitch notices, and draws back respectfully. “See you soon, Mr. Sanderson.”

 

***

 

On the way home the stem of the orchid seems to burn in his hands. In the spread of the petals he sees himself spread before the heavy-lidded smiling gaze of Pitch. _If I had stayed if I had stayed…No Sandy you don’t know what kind of world he’s part of, not really, you don’t belong in that world…what would Joan Blake do?_

When he finally manages to get to sleep, he feels like he falls directly into a dream. He is walking through an art gallery, which he knows is very famous, but he doesn’t recognize any of the pictures. The place is crowded, busy, and among the visitors he’s almost sure that he catches glimpses of the other regulars. Eventually, however, he reaches a room that contains only a pile of books with a strong light shining on them from the side. The combined shadow they cast forms the shape of a bed on the far wall, on which Pitch is somehow sitting.

“Join me, won’t you, Mr. Sanderson?”

“Sandy,” he corrects him. Remembering the alarm from yesterday, and knowing that this is, after all, only a dream, he runs over to the shadow-bed, heedless of his dignity.

Pitch laughs delightedly. “Why you eager little—” Whatever he’s going to say is cut off by Sandy’s greedy kiss. He’s not sure how to climb on top of a shadow bed, even a in a dream, so he decides that he’ll push Pitch back and climb on top of _him_ , and then they’ll both be on the bed without too much trouble.

Pitch is only too amenable to this, humming into Sandy’s mouth with pleasure as his warm weight presses him into the mattress. He wraps his long arms around Sandy’s shoulders and begins to caress his back, even as Sandy starts to push his knees apart with his own.

“Always the quiet ones, eh, Sandy?” Pitch murmurs into his ear, hooking one long leg around his waist and the other around his knees.

“Only because you’d never let me do this in real life.” Sandy kisses him again, sliding his hands under his robe and caressing his flat, lean, chest and stomach.

“I’d let you do whatever you wanted in real life,” Pitch says breathlessly, before giving Sandy a cheeky grin and lowering his arms from his shoulders to give his ass a firm squeeze. “Though there are a few things I’d want to do too.”

Sandy snorts, continuing his tactile exploration of Pitch’s body. “Is that why you gave me that obscene orchid?”

“Maybe.” Pitch grinds against Sandy. “Maybe you just have a dirty mind.”

“Maybe I do. Take off your clothes and I’ll show you how dirty.”

Pitch flushes. “Sandy, you had better act like this in real life…” He removes his robe and trousers while Sandy sits on his knees on the bed, watching the operation with considerable interest. Pitch barely has time to fling his clothes away before Sandy is pressing him to the bed again, mouth on his neck. Sandy nips and sucks at the muscle just at the juncture where Pitch’s long neck becomes his shoulder and Pitch pants into Sandy’s gold hair.

“…going to love you,” he breathes.

Sandy pulls back. “What was that?”

Pitch laughs wickedly. “All in good time, Sand-man. Now, I feel we are somewhat unequal at the moment…” he reaches out and begins to pull the hem of Sandy’s shirt up.

Sandy grins. “Well I’m certainly not going to be coy in the best lucid dream I’ve ever had.” In a few moments, he’s as naked as Pitch, who’s looking at him like he’s the first ripe peach of summer.

“May you always be so bold,” he murmurs, trailing a long-fingered hand down Sandy’s chest and lightly pinching a rose-pink nipple.

“Not bloody likely,” Sandy says with a gasp. “In real life there’s no way a guy like you would go for a guy like me.” He licks his hand and reaches down to grasp Pitch’s hardening cock.

“Mhmm. I’ve always found it vexing—uhhm—when individuals refuse to believe their own eyes.” He pulls Sandy down into another kiss.

Pressed together like this, Sandy’s cock pushes against Pitch’s, and he adjusts his grip as best he can to stroke both of them at once.

Breaking from the kiss, putting his hands on Sandy’s shoulders and giving them a squeeze, Pitch says, “Sandy, Sandy…you’re working much too hard. Do get comfortable.” He unwraps his legs from Sandy’s body so he’s lying back with his knees slightly raised. With direction given by touch, he instructs Sandy to get out from between his legs and straddle his hips instead. “Now just relax.” He gently pushes Sandy back so he’s reclining on Pitch’s long, long thighs. Sandy watches, transfixed, as Pitch slowly, slowly licks his palm and all his fingers. Pitch then reaches out to where their cocks are still pressed together, and begins to stroke both, quick and firm.

And it is all so good and he tries to relax, yes he does, but he cannot help himself from bucking his hips into Pitch’s hand more than a few times. He can see Pitch’s face well from this perspective, and his face is a fascinating mix of the concentration that commonly appears there during his shows and waves of pleasure.

“Not to make this stranger than it already is,” Sandy says, reaching behind him to run his hands along Pitch’s thighs, “But I—ah—I’ve made you the villain of my next book.”

A smile spreads over Pitch’s face for a moment before his expression changes to open-mouthed pleasure as he comes, hot and messy, across his stomach.

“Do I seduce a hero such as you?” He asks after several moments, wiping himself with a shadow sheet and returning his attention to Sandy’s still-hard cock.

“No—oh!—she’s much younger. A she.”

“I’d still seduce you if you were a young girl, Sandy.”

That shouldn’t make him want to come, but it does, and he would have if Pitch hadn’t suddenly taken his hand away. “Not yet. I want to—here.” Pitch sits up and has Sandy turn around, so they are both sitting, Sandy’s back pressed against Pitch’s chest, Pitch’s legs framing Sandy’s. It doesn’t seem like a good comparison to Sandy, but Pitch begins to stroke his length lightly with one hand, while trailing the other greedily over Sandy’s plump belly and thick thighs, pausing every so often to knead or pinch the soft flesh. As he does this he whispers a stream of filthy nonsense in Sandy’s ear, punctuated with kisses on his neck, detailing how truly sexy he finds him, how very delicious, and all the barely imaginable things he is going do with him, things he didn’t know existed, things he didn’t know he liked, but Pitch will show him, yes, yes he will…

Soon after Pitch begins to apply more earnest pressure on his cock, Sandy comes harder than he ever has in his life.

When he finally begins to return to himself, he realizes to his everlasting frustration that he’s waking up in his ordinary flat, alone. And of course he’s got to do laundry.

_I suppose it’s a fair price for a dream like that._

 

***

 

“What wakes a dreamer?” Pitch muses that night at the show, interweaving his commentary with a contact juggling routine. A pyramid of crystal balls turns slowly in his outstretched hand. “What makes a dreamer?” He removes the top crystal and flips it from one side of his hand to the other, allows it to roll up and down his arm. “What makes a hero? What makes a villain? Is it in the energy? Do the dreamer and the villain release their energy? When the hero wakes, does he or she wake to repression? Do you know that you are all dreaming now?

“Dreams make promises we can’t keep while we’re awake. But promises are sacred things, no matter if the things promised are profane. To keep them all, we must strive to be more often dreaming. Dreaming in paint,” one of the crystal balls vanishes, “or fabric,” another, “or mechanical mischief” a third is gone, “or chalk that vanishes like melting snow,” a fourth, “or wonderful, wonderful words” the fifth, and last, vanishes—and reappears, much to Sandy’s surprise, in his jacket pocket.

“Keep that in your minds, along with anything else you may find here tonight,” Pitch says. “Now, who here believes they can keep their fears hidden from me? What about you, young man, in the baseball cap…”

 

***

 

Sandy sets the crystal ball on his bedside table. If anything, his dream of Pitch that night is even more intense than yesterday’s.

The dreams continue throughout the week. Alarmingly, Pitch’s shows almost seem to allude to the nocturnal adventures Sandy envisions taking place between them, but that is utterly and totally impossible. Isn’t it?

It’s not impossible for Mister Nyx, though, and Sandy’s writing goes well. Williams is going to chase him out of her office during their next meeting, but the writing does go well.

After Thursday evening’s—well, Friday morning’s—show, the bouncer asks him to wait again. Sandy notices the other regulars are staying behind as well, though he didn’t see the bouncer tell them anything. They stand apart from each other, looking, for the most part, relaxed, though they all glance over at him now and then. Something he knows, of course, because he’s been glancing back while waiting for Pitch.

When Pitch does come out from behind the curtain, the way they all turn towards him is eerily synchronized. And Sandy realizes he was part of that mass movement just like the others. Pitch smiles, and nods to the other regulars before walking over to Sandy.

“Sandy,” he begins, “as one of my regulars, I thought it only courtesy to let you know that for the next three nights I won’t be having the show here.”

_Hasn’t he only ever called me Sandy in…my dreams?_ Best not to think about that now. “I hope you won’t think I’m obsessed, but might I ask where you are having the show? That is, unless you’re taking a holiday. You certainly deserve it.”

Pitch’s smile becomes more of a smirk. “Don’t worry about coming off as obsessed. I’ve always found obsession to be a wonderful thing.

“Anyway, I am still having the show. Some rich wankers asked me if I would ever be willing to do a private performance, and I quoted them what I thought was an unbelievably high fee. It turns out they were richer and I’m more mercenary than I thought, and so I’m giving a three-show series at their estate, just a little way out into the country.

“I tried to add enough conditions to my contract to get them to back out, but they agreed to them all.”

“Well, I’ll miss you—r show while you’re gone. I look forward to it every day.”

“Ah—wait Sandy, I haven’t gotten to the important part yet. I know that none of the gits at my shows those three nights are going to have any potential to become regulars. They’re going to be there for whatever pop tart’s birthday they’re celebrating. They won’t know why, but without any regulars—or any potential regulars—the energy of my show will be ruined. So I told them I would be bringing several guests.” He laughs briefly. “They think you’re plants. As if I would resort to such tactics.

“It’s all very generous. We’re going to be set up in the guest house, which as you might imagine, is inordinately spacious and luxurious. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Sandy, would you be so kind as to accompany me on this excursion? With the other regulars?”

Very short notice. It’s not the sort of thing a normal person would do. It’s the sort of thing Joan Blake did a few chapters ago.

“I’d love to. It does seem a bit odd, though, doesn’t it? After all, you hardly know me.”

“Oh Sandy. I know everyone who comes to see the show. And I’ve been getting to know you _quite_ well, of late.”

“That’s—that’s not possible.” Sandy can’t steady his voice.

Pitch grins and shrugs. “Anything is possible. Haven’t you been listening during my shows? Or perhaps the sound of my voice distracts you from the content.”

He had said something like that, hadn’t he? But no, those were just dreams. Pitch was cold-reading him and trying to freak him out. He was good at it. That was all, right? Right?

“Perhaps you are reconsidering? While you do so, allow me to allude to a certain other aspect of this invitation.” His eyes slide over to the other regulars, and he gives them a slight nod. “Sandy, do you consider yourself a generous person? Someone who is willing to share?”

“It depends on what I’m being asked to share.”

“What if it was something you wanted very much?”

“I—is sharing the only way I’m going to get any part of it?”

Pitch nods.

“Then—yes.”

“I’m so glad you feel that way. And you know—sometimes a little generosity can have fivefold returns.”

“What _exactly_ are you talking about, Pitch? What does this have to do with your invitation?”

At that moment Pitch looks over his head. “Yes, do come closer.” Sandy looks around to find that the other regulars have formed a rough semicircle behind him. _This is like some sort of gang initiation_ , he thinks wildly, though of course it really isn’t. Pitch gently turns him and places an arm over his shoulders so they’re both facing the other regulars. _Pitch is touching me but this is real life go back start over try again this doesn’t seem like it’s going to lead to anything that can fit within a purple paperback cover…_

“Sandy, I’d like you to meet Jack, Riti, Nikolai, and Aster. They’ve been dying to meet you ever since you became a regular. And I cannot tell you how happy it would make me if you all became very, _very_ good friends.”

Riti smiles at him, her teeth blindingly white. “You are quite the dreamer, we’ve heard. Don’t be nervous. We don’t bite unless we’re asked first.”

 

***

 

No two people will agree on the allegorical meaning of Mister Nyx’s lieutenants in _The Hypnagogia of Joan Blake_ , but they will agree that the book as a whole is one of the most unusual they’ve ever read.

**Author's Note:**

> Oops, my Jareth obsession shone through here.
> 
> Joan Blake gets her name from Joan of Arc and William Blake.


End file.
